The Milkshake Trilogy
by trashysexsonnet
Summary: Sara's got it, Catherine wants it and Greg's spilled it. Complete.
1. Her Milkshake Brings all the Geeks

**The Milkshake Trilogy, Chapter One:** Her Milkshake Brings All the Geeks to the Yard

**Rating**: PG

**Warning: **Contents are extremely silly and may contain fluff, cliché and terrible songs. No spoilers. Does not take season 6 into consideration (or any of the many other episodes I have not yet seen ;) ).

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It was early on a Wednesday morning at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, and Sara Sidle was in the layout room, processing crime scene photographs and singing something about a milkshake. Directly behind her, leaning contra posto against the doorframe, was Gil Grissom. He listened intently, head quirked to the side, smiling quizzically. He liked hearing Sara sing; she had a good voice, a strong, low alto, especially when she thought no one was around. But this was no song he had ever heard before. And judging by her repetition of the same odd few lines, she didn't know it very well either.

"_My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and they're like, it's better than yours, damn right, it's better than yours…"_ she trailed off, lifted a photograph to the light and squinted. "_My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…"_

"Your milkshake?"

Sara spun around, knocking her hip into the table. "Good God, Grissom! You scared the hell out of me!"

He raised an eyebrow. "What were you just singing?"

"Some stupid song Greg had on the radio. It's been stuck in my head all night… I didn't even realize I was singing." She blushed an attractive pink and quickly changed the subject. "So, you got something for me? Or were you just sneaking up on me for kicks?"

"I wasn't sneaking up on you," he corrected with a smirk. "But I do have something for you." He handed her a sheaf of papers. "DMV records for that list of cars you submitted. Just came in."

"Thanks." She flipped absently through the file. "Tire treads should be pretty easy to match, they're a unique brand."

Grissom picked up one of the photographs on the table and grimaced. "Is this the hit and run?"

"Yeah." Sara exhaled slowly. "She's thirteen years old."

Grissom glanced over the pile of evidence that still needed to be processed. It was only half an hour until shift change. Sara had already reabsorbed herself in the photographs.

"Shift's ending soon," he said casually.

"I know."

Grissom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "If you stay, you'll max out on overtime."

She didn't even look up. "No, I won't. "

"Yes, you will. You've logged almost 20 hours overtime in the last week."

"So clock me out. I'm not leaving. This is important."

_It's always important, _he did not say, but wanted to. Grissom glanced down at her hands. Her fingers were tapping erratic rhythms against the table.

"How much coffee have you had?"

"I lost count."

"Do you know that it's possible to overdose on caffeine?"

"Hasn't happened yet!" Grissom thought he detected a hint of pride in her voice.

"Doesn't mean it won't," he shot back.

It appeared she had nothing more to add. Grissom flicked his eyes back and forth between her busy hands and the pile of evidence, weighing his options. He wanted to go home. There was an Angels game on in the afternoon and a six pack of beer in his fridge, and he needed sleep. But he hated the thought of her alone in the lab, looking at endless photographs of a dead teenager, someone she couldn't help, not really, no matter how many hours of sleep she sacrificed.

"Would you like some help?"

She finally looked up. "Don't you have that double homicide you're working?"

"Wrapped. The butler did it." They exchanged a smile as Grissom reached for the bag of clothing.

"You guys closed pretty fast for a double homicide," she observed, reaching for her pen. "That's gotta be close to the record."

"Yes, it was very close. As Ecklie was only too happy to point out. But that's not important."

Sara bobbed her head in agreement and fell back into her work. Grissom stole the occasional surreptitious glance as they bagged and tagged. She worked intently, her lips pressed together, her graceful eyebrows inclined into a slight frown. Watching Sara concentrate on something was like watching a concert pianist. Grissom had always enjoyed watching people do what they did best; their skill, their art. But this wasn't an etude; this was vehicular manslaughter. Sara was a very talented CSI, but Grissom couldn't imagine that her work brought her much joy. It was a skill that could never really be mastered. There would always be crime. Yet she invested so much of her life into it. What did she have at the end of the day, when she left the bloodbath behind and went home? Or did she ever really leave at all?

They finished in just under two hours. Sara covered her face and yawned as they walked together to the locker room.

"Got any plans today?" He sat down and began removing his shoes.

"Not really. I was thinking of catching a movie."

"What movie?"

Sara tugged her hair free of its clasp. "Kinsey. Have you seen it?"

"Kinsey? As in Alfred Kinsey?"

"Yup, the sex researcher. It's supposed to be really good. There's a great independent theater near my apartment playing a matinee." She removed her jacket from her locker and shrugged into it.

"He was an entomologist, you know."

"Oh yeah?"

"Before he discovered sex, he studied gall wasps."

She flashed him a grin. "Well, that's an interesting transition. Gall wasps to sex."

Grissom thought fast. He had a choice now: he could go home, sleep, watch the Angels game and worry about Sara. Or he could do something to repair their ailing friendship. _One step at a time,_ he thought, and took a breath.

"Would you mind if I tagged along?"

Sara faltered in the act of reaching for her purse and looked at him, her expression completely inscrutable. There was a beat of silence.

"Um, sure. If you want to."

He heard the hesitation in her voice and studied her cautiously. She was holding the muscles in her face carefully. Grissom felt his confidence leaking away.

"Unless you don't want to spend the afternoon with your supervisor. I understand."

"No! That sounds like fun. As long as you don't mind spending the afternoon with your highly caffeinated coworker." She smiled hesitantly and Grissom felt the familiar, distinct tug in his stomach that seemed to be a direct result of Sara smiling at him.

"There will be no more caffeine for you," he chided, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. She made a face and he laughed as they left the locker room together. "But I will buy you a milkshake."


	2. A Good Milkshake is Hard to Find

**The Milkshake Trilogy, Chapter Two:** A Good Milkshake is Hard to Find

**Rating**: PG

**Warning: **Contents are extremely silly and may contain fluff, cliché and terrible songs. No spoilers. Does not take season 6 into consideration (or any of the many other episodes I have not yet seen ;) ).

**-----**

Catherine Willows was feeling good. Very good. Wrapping-a-tough-case good. It was close the end of shift, and she was breezing through the lab, putting the finishing touches on her report detailing the double homicide she had been working all week with Grissom and Warrick. It was a gory case: a wealthy couple found dead in their bedroom, covered in blood. _Covered_. The sheets, the floor and the walls were all brightly patterned with spatter, cast off and voids. She knew that it was unethical, probably even immoral, to look upon such a gruesome scene and think _puzzle! _But blood was what Catherine did best. She had spent the better part of the week photographing, swabbing and stringing up the crime scene, and her dogged work paid off. The couple's butler, one Mr. Stevens, had broken down beneath the weight of their forensic evidence and confessed ten minutes into his interrogation. Apparently Stevens had put in a good 40 years of dedicated service, only to wake up one morning to the sick realization that he had wasted his entire life as a butler. Catherine wasn't entirely sure she blamed him, which was also probably immoral, but at the moment she didn't care. The only thing standing between her and some well deserved rest was her report.

She sank into a chair in the break room with a satisfied sigh. No sooner had she kicked off her shoes and uncapped her pen when her cell phone began trilling on her hip. Almost simultaneously, the door swung open and Warrick Brown loped into the room, flashing her a friendly smile. She winked back and unsnapped her phone.

"Willows. Oh, hey…couple of hours, tops. Why?" She straightened in her seat and grimaced. "Did you take her temperature?" Warrick took a chair across from her and frowned sympathetically. "A hundred and two? It wasn't nearly that high last night." She exhaled slowly and rested her forehead on her palm. "Yeah, I know. It's probably strep again…yeah, I can take her. Sure. No, it's all right. I'm not that busy. Okay. I'll be home in about 20 minutes. Mm'hmm. 'Bye."

"Lindsey's sick?" Warrick asked as soon as she had shut the phone.

"Yup. Sounds like strep throat again. No rest for the weary." She glanced almost longingly at the unfinished report in front of her. "Guess I'll have to come in early tonight and finish this. Damn it, I was so close." She stood up to retrieve her shoes. Warrick slid the sheaf of paper across the table.

"I can finish this, Catherine. Don't worry about it."

"Aw, you don't have to do that. Don't you have evidence to finish processing?"

"Nah, It's almost done. I'm waiting on a tox report anyway. It'll give me something to do."

"Are you sure? I don't want you to have to stay late on account of me."

"I don't mind. I could use the overtime." He smirked and waved his hand in the direction of the door. "Go!"

Catherine laughed. "Thank you, Warrick. I owe you one."

Warrick's gaze followed her out the door and lingered in the hallway after she'd passed out of sight. After a long moment he heaved a resigned sigh and reached for her abandoned pen.

-----

If there was one thing Catherine Willows hated, it was waiting. Lindsey's regular doctor was booked solid, which meant the emergency room. She spent the entire morning sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair reading old issues of _People_ while Lindsey dozed feverishly with her head in her lap. After they finally got a doctor to diagnose her (it was indeed Strep), Catherine spent another hour waiting in the pharmacy for Lindsey's medication. By the time they got home, both mother and daughter were exhausted and cranky. Lindsey drifted off to sleep around three, but the same could not be said for Catherine. She had laundry waiting and bills to pay, not to mention groceries to buy (Lindsey needed popsicles, and lots of them), and it was already 3:30. Sleep would have to wait another day.

Catherine poured herself a drink and resigned herself to her checkbook. She was signing her electric bill when the doorbell rang.

Warrick Brown stood on her porch, holding a plastic shopping bag and what looked like a giant chocolate milkshake. "Hey, Catherine."

"Hey yourself. What are you doing here?" Catherine held the door open for him.

"I just thought I'd drop this off for Lindsey. How's she doing?"

Catherine opened the shopping bag and found popsicles, ice cream and a collection of Lindsey's favorite teen magazines. She looked up at Warrick and was, for the first time in a good long while, struck completely speechless.

"You didn't have to do this."

"I know." He gave an easy shrug and held out the milkshake. "Just thought I might be able to help."

She shook her head in disbelief. "You…are amazing."

Warrick laughed. "Nah. I had strep all the time as a kid. I remember what it feels like. Milkshakes were the only thing I could swallow."

"Well, Lindsey's sleeping right now, but I'll put this in the fridge for her. She'll be thrilled when she wakes up. Can you stay for a drink? Least I can do for your trouble."

"It wasn't any trouble at all. But sure, I can hang for awhile." He followed her into the kitchen. Catherine noticed that he'd changed into a forest green t-shirt that set off his eyes.

She produced a key to the liquor cabinet and opened it for inspection. "What'll you have?"

Warrick let out a low whistle. "Nice collection. Gin and tonic?"

"Coming right up."

Warrick leaned against the counter and watched her fix the drinks. "You get any sleep?"

"Nope. We had to go to the emergency room. Didn't get out of there until two."

"You're kidding! Her doctor couldn't see her?"

"Booked solid." She handed him a glass and held up her own. "Here. To milkshakes."

Warrick chuckled. "Cheers." They clinked glasses and looked at each other as they sipped.

"So," Catherine said, placing her glass on the counter.

"So." He treated her to one of his famous slow smiles that made Catherine feel loose and anxious and about 25 years old.

"Any chance the lab melted down after I left, conveniently giving us a night off?"

Warrick grinned. "Well, almost. Greg spilled something on the GC mass spec. Grissom almost went through the roof."

Catherine raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "I'll bet he did. Damn, I'm almost sorry I missed that."

"Yeah, it was quite the scene."

They fell into a companionable silence, sipping their drinks and exchanging sideways glances. Catherine leaned against the counter and pursed her lips.

"So," she drawled slowly. Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do to repay you for your kindness?"

He eyed her over the rim of his glass. "It was just a milkshake."

"Yeah, but you know what they say…a good milkshake is hard to find these days."

"That right?" He put his drink down and somehow ended up standing very close to her. Catherine smirked and pressed her hands into the green of his shirt.

"Oh, yeah."


	3. No Use Crying Over Spilt Milkshake

**The Milkshake Trilogy, Chapter Three:** No Use Crying over Spilt Milkshake

**Rating**: PG

**Warning: **Contents are extremely silly and may contain fluff, cliché and terrible songs. No spoilers. Does not take season 6 into consideration (or any of the many other episodes I have not yet seen ;) ).

Shout outs to Emma, beta extraordinaire, who came up with the title for this chapter AND burned me the CD I am currently listening to.

**-----**

"Dude…you are screwed."

"I know."

"_So_ screwed."

"I know!"

"Grissom is going to _kill_ you when he -"

"I know, Nick! I know! You're not really helping here!"

Nick Stokes examined the carnage spread before him and let out a long, low whistle. "I think you're beyond help, Greggo. This is really, really not good."

Greggo had no immediate response to this except to turn an interesting shade of white. Nick was tempted to snap a picture, but had the decency to resist. The situation was dire enough as it was.

"Man, what were you doing drinking that in here anyway? You know the rules!"

"I know! I just…I wasn't thinking!Oh god, I've got to get this cleaned up." Greg looked around frantically, spotted a paper towel dispenser and lunged for it. Nick crossed his arms over his chest and made an enormous effort not to laugh as the young lab tech hysterically pumped the machine until it ran out of paper.

"Damn it, damn it, I am _so_ fired, if Grissom finds out about this – " he pressed the mound of paper towels onto the Gas Chromatograph Mass Spectrometer and whimpered.

"Find out about what?"

Nick and Greg's heads snapped up like two puppets on the same string. Under any other circumstance, Grissom might have been amused.

"Um."

"Greg was just-"

"Is that…the GCMS?" The grave shift supervisor, looking very grave indeed, crossed the room in three great, angry strides. Nick stepped aside nervously and shot Greg a look that seemed to say, "Well, you had a pretty good life."

"I, um…"

"Is this _milkshake_!" Grissom trailed his finger through the brown puddle coating the surface of the GC mass specand glared at the young tech over the top of his glasses.

"Maybe. Um, probably." There was a long and painful silence. "…yes."

"What the hell is milkshake doing all over the GC mass spec? Do you have _any_ idea how much these things cost!"

"…yes sir."

"How much, Greg? Exactly how much do gas chromatograph mass spectrometerscost?" He drew the machine's name out completely, emphasizing its importance.

Greg mumbled an unintelligible string of numbers and stared intently at his shoes. Grissom expelled a disgusted sigh.

"You are not leaving this lab until this is cleaned up, and then you're _still_ not leaving, because you're going to report to my office, where I have a nice long list of chores that I haven't quite gotten around to because every time I turn around I have to deal with something like this! Am I clear?" Grissom didn't bother to wait for a response. Various frightened interns scrambled out of his path as he stormed from the lab.

"Not the bug cages," Greg whimpered.

"Oh, bug cages are the least of your worries. You'd better hope this thing still works." Nick eyed the young tech sympathetically and blew out a long breath. "Look, go ahead and start cleaning. I'll be right back."

He jogged down the hallway, nervously skirting past Grissom's office, and found the janitor's closet. When he returned with a stack of towels and a bottle of cleaning solution, Greg looked like he might kiss his feet.

"Whoa, down boy!" Nick chuckled and shoved the towels into Greg's arms as the young tech attempted to bear hug him. "Just get this cleaned up, okay? It doesn't look too bad. Grissom will forgive you. Someday," he added warily, nudging the empty milkshake cup with his shoe.

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. If he was _really_ mad, you'd be fired. Or dead. Just be thankful you got away with bug duty."

"Stupid bugs." Greg hung his head forlornly and began spritzing a towel. "Stupid milkshake."


End file.
